“If you’d like to go ashore and have a look at Mombasa after tiffin, Mr. Greene,” said the fourth officer of theElymasto Bertram, the next morning, as he leant against the rail and gazed at the wonderful palm-forest of the African shore, “some of us are going for a row—to stretch our muscles. We could drop you at the Kilindinibunder.”
“Many thanks,” replied Bertram. “I shall be very much obliged,” and he smiled his very attractive and pleasant smile.
This was a welcome offer, for, privately, he hated being taken ashore from a ship by natives of the harbour in which the ship lay. One never knew exactly what to pay the wretches. If one asked what the fare was, they always named some absurd amount, and if one used one’s common sense and gave them what seemed areasonable sum they were inevitably hurt, shocked, disappointed in one, indignantly broken-hearted, and invariably waxed clamorous, protestful, demanding more. It had been the same at Malta, Port Said and Aden on his way out to India. In Bombay harbour he had once gone for a morning sail in a bunderboat, and on their return, the captain of the crew of three had demanded fifteen rupees for a two-hour sail. A pound for two hours in a cranky sailing-boat!—and the scoundrels had followed him up the steps clamouring vociferously, until a native policeman had fallen upon them with blows and curses. . . . How he wished he was of those men who can give such people their due in such a manner that they receive it in respectful silence, with apparent contentment, if not gratitude. Something in the eye and the set of the jaw, evidently—and so was glad of the fourth officer’s kind suggestion.
He would have been still more glad had he heard the fourth officer announce, at table, to his colleagues: “I offered to drop that chap, Lieutenant Greene, at Kilindini this afternoon, when we go for our grind. He can take the tiller-ropes. . . . I like him the best of the lot—no blooming swank and side about him.”
“Yes,” agreed the “wireless” operator, “he doesn’t talk to you as though he owned the earth, but was really quite pleased to let you stand on it for a bit. . . . I reckon he’ll do all right, though, when he gets-down-to-it with the Huns—if he doesn’t get done in. . . .”
And so it came to pass that Bertram was taken ashore that afternoon by some half-dozen officers and officials (including the doctor, the purser, and the Marconi operator) of theElymas—worthy representatives of that ill-paid, little-considered service, that most glorious and beyond-praise, magnificent service, the British Mercantile Marine—and, landing in state upon the soil of the Dark Continent, knew “the pleasure that touches the souls of men landing on strange shores.”
Arrived at the top of the stone steps of the Kilindini quay, Bertram encountered Africa in the appropriately representative person of a vast negro gentleman, who wore a red fez cap (or tarboosh), a very long white calico night-dress and an all-embracing smile.
“Jambo!” quoth the huge Ethiopian, and further stretched his lips an inch nearer to his ears on either side.
Not being aware that the African “Jambo” is equivalent to the Indian “Salaam,” and means “Greeting and Good Health,” or words to that effect, Bertram did not counter with a return “Jambo,” but nodded pleasantly and said: “Er—good afternoon.”
Whereupon the ebon one remarked: “Oh, my God, sah, ole chap, thank you,” to show, in the first place, that he quite realised the situation (to wit, Bertram’s excusable ignorance of Swahili-Arabic), and that he was himself, fortunately, a fluent English scholar. Bertram stared in amazement at the pleasant-faced, friendly-looking giant.
“Bwanawill wanting servant, ole chap,” continued the negro, “don’t it? I am best servant forBwana. Speaking English like hell, sah, please. Waiting here forBwanabefore long time to come. Good afternoon, thank you, please, Master, by damn, ole chap. Also bringing letter forBwana. . . . You read, thanks awfully, your mos’ obedient servant by damn, oh, God, thank you, sah,” and produced a filthy envelope from some inner pocket of the aforementioned night-dress, which, innocent of buttons or trimming, revealed his tremendous bare chest.
Bertram felt uncomfortable, and, for a moment, again wished that he was one of those men-with-an-eye-and-a-jaw who could give a glare, a grunt, and a jerk of the head which would cause the most importunate native to fade unobtrusively away.
On the one hand, he knew it would be folly to engage as a servant the first wandering scoundrel who accosted him and suggested that he should do so; while, on the other, he distinctly liked this man’s cheery, smiling face, he realised that servants would probably be at a decided premium, and he recognised the extreme desirability of having a servant, if have one he must, who spoke English, however weird, and understood it when spoken. Should he engage the man then and there? Would he, by so doing, show himself a man of quick decision and prompt action—one of those forceful, incisive men he so admired? Or would he merely be acting foolishly and prematurely, merely exhibiting himself as a rash and unbalanced young ass? Anyhow, he would read the “chits” which the filthy envelope presumably contained. If these were satisfactory, he would tell the man that the matter was under consideration, and that he might look out for him again and hear his decision.
As Bertram surmised, the envelope contained the man’s “chits,” or testimonials. The first stated that Ali Sloper, the bearer, had been onsafariwith the writer, and had proved to be a good plain cook, a reliable and courageous gun-carrier, a good shot, and an honest, willing worker. The second was written by a woman whose house-boy Ali Suleiman had been for two years in Mombasa, and who stated that she had had worse ones. The third and last was written at the Nairobi Club by a globe-trotting Englishman named Stayne-Brooker, who had employed the man as personal “boy” and headman of porters, on a protracted lion-shooting trip across the Athi and Kapiti Plains and found him intelligent, keen, cheery, and staunch. (Where had he heard the name Stayne-Brooker before—or had he dreamed it as a child?) Certainly this fellow was well-recommended, and appeared to be just the man to take as one’s personal servant on active service. Butdidone take a servant on active service? One could not stir, or exist, without one in India, and officers took syces and servants with them on frontier campaigns—but Africa is not India. . . . However, he could soon settle that point by asking.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, returning the chits. “I shall be coming ashore again to-morrow. . . . How much pay do you want?”
“Oh, sah! Master not mentioning it!” was the reply of this remarkable person. “Oh, nothing, nothing, sah!Bwanaoffering me forty rupees a mensem, I say ‘No, sah! Too much.’ . . . Master not mention it.”
“It might not be half a bad idea to mention it, y’know,” said Bertram, smiling and turning to move on.
“Oh, God, sah, thank you, please,” replied Ali Sloper,aliasAli Suleiman. “I do not wanting forty. I am accepting thirty rupees, sah, and am now your mos’ obedient servant by damn from the beginning for ever. And whenBwana, loving me still more, can pay more, ole chap. God bless my thank-you soul”—and “fell in” behind Bertram as though prepared to follow him thence to the end of the world or beyond.
Bertram gazed around, and found that he was in a vast yard, two sides of which were occupied by the largest corrugated-iron sheds he had ever seen in his life. One of these appeared to be the Customs shed, and into another a railway wandered. Between two of them, great gates let a white sandy road escape into theUnknown. On the stone quay the heat, shut in and radiated by towering iron sheds, was the greatest he had ever experienced, and he gasped for breath and trickled with perspiration. He devoutly hoped that this was not a fair sample of Africa’s normal temperature. Doubtless it would be cooler away from the quay, which, with the iron sheds, seemed to form a Titanic oven for the quick and thorough baking of human beings. It being Sunday afternoon, there were but few such, and those few appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the roasting process, if one might judge from their grinning faces and happy laughter. They were all Africans, and, for the most part, clad in long, clean night-dresses and fez caps. Evidently Ali Sloper or Suleiman was dressed in the height of local fashion. On a bench, by the door of the Customs shed, lounged some big negroes in dark blue tunics and shorts, with blue puttees between bare knees and bare feet. Their tall tarbooshes made them look even taller than they were, and the big brass plates on their belt-buckles shone like gold. Bertram wondered whether the Germans had just such brawny giants in their Imperial African Rifles, and tried to imagine himself defeating one of them in single combat. The effort was a failure.
At the gates was a very different type of person, smarter, quicker, more active and intelligent-looking, a Sikh Sepoy of the local military police. The man sprang to attention and saluted with a soldierly promptness and smartness that were a pleasure to behold.
Outside the dock, the heat was not quite so intense, but the white sandy road, running between high grass and palms, also ran uphill, and, as the perspiration ran down his face, Bertram wished he might discover the vilest, most ramshackle and moth-eatentikka-gharithat ever disgraced the streets of Bombay. That the hope was vain he knew, and that in all the island of Mombasa there is no single beast of burden, thanks to the tsetse fly, whose sting is death to them. . . . And the Mombasa Club, the Fort, and European quarter were at the opposite side of the island, four miles away, according to report. Where were these trolley-trams of which he had heard? If he had to walk much farther up this hill, his uniform would look as though he had swum ashore in it.
“Master buck up like hell, ole chap, thank you,” boomed a voice behind. “Trolley as nearer as be damned please. Niggers make push by Jove to Club, thank God,” and turning, Bertrambeheld the smiling Ali beaming down upon him as he strolled immediately behind him.
“Go away, you ass,” replied the hot and irritated Bertram, only to receive an even broader smile and the assurance that his faithful old servant would never desert him—not after having been his devoted slave since so long a time ago before and for ever more after also. And a minute or two later the weary warfarer came in sight of a very narrow, single tram-line, beside the road. Where this abruptly ended stood a couple of strange vehicles, like small, low railway-trolleys, with wheels the size of dinner-plates. On each trolley was a seat of sufficient length to accommodate two people, and above the bench was a canvas roof or shade, supported by iron rods. From a neighbouring bench sprang four men, also clad in night-dresses and fez caps, who, with strange howls and gesticulations, bore down upon the approaching European.
“Hapa,[66]Bwana!” they yelled. “Trolley hapa,” and, for a moment, Bertram thought they would actually seize him and struggle for possession of his body. He determined that if one of the shrieking fiends laid a hand upon him, he would smite him with what violence he might. The heat was certainly affecting his temper. He wondered what it would feel like to strike a man—a thing he had never done in his life. But, on reaching him, the men merely pointed to their respective trolleys and skipped back to them, still pointing, and apparently calling Heaven to witness their subtle excellences and charms.
As Bertram was about to step on to the foremost trolley, the men in charge of the other sprang forward with yelps of anguish, only to receive cause for louder yelps of deeper anguish at the hands of Ali, who, with blows and buffets, drove them before him. Bertram wondered why the pair of them, each as big as their assailant, should flee before him thus. Was it by reason of Ali’s greater moral force, juster cause, superior social standing as the follower of a white man, or merely the fact that he took it upon him to be the aggressor. Probably the last. Anyhow—thank Heaven for the gloriously cool and refreshing breeze, caused by the rapid rush of the trolley through the heavy air, as the trolley-“boys” ran it down the decline from the hill-top whence they had started.
As soon as the trolley had gained sufficient momentum, they leapt on to the back of the vehicle, and there clung until it began to slow down again. Up-hill they slowly pushed with terrific grunts, on the level they maintained a good speed, and down-hill the thing rattled, bumped and bounded at a terrific pace, the while Bertram wondered how long it would keep the rails, and precisely what would happen if it jumped them. Had he but known it, there was a foot-brake beneath the seat, which he should have used when going down-hill. ’Twas not for the two specimens of Afric’s ebon sons, who perched and clung behind him, to draw his attention to it. Was he not aBwana, a white man, and therefore one who knew all things? And if he wanted to break his neck had he not a right so to do? And if they, too, should be involved in the mighty smash, would not that fact prove quite conclusively that it was theirkismetto be involved in the smash, and therefore inevitable? Who shall avoid his fate? . . . And so, in blissful ignorance, Bertram swooped down-hill in joyous, mad career. He wished the pace were slower at times, for everything was new and strange and most interesting. Native huts, such as he had seen in pictures (labelled “kaffir-kraals”) in his early geography book, alternated with official-looking buildings, patches of jungle; gardens of custard-apple, mango, paw-paw, banana, and papai trees; neat and clean police-posts, bungalows, cultivated fields, dense woods and occasional mosques, Arab houses, go-downs,[67]temples, and native infantry “lines.”
On the dazzlingly white road (which is made of coral and nothing else) were few people. An occasional Indian Sepoy, a British soldier, anaskariof the King’s African Rifles, an officialpeonwith a belt-plate as big as a saucer (and bearing some such legend asHarbour PoliceorCivil Hospital), a tall Swahili in the inevitable long night-dress and tarboosh, or a beautifully worked skull cap, a file of native women clad each in a single garment of figured cotton which extended from arm-pit to ankle, leaving the arms and shoulders bare. The hairdressing of these ladies interested Bertram, for each head displayed not one, but a dozen, partings, running from the forehead to the neck, and suggesting the seams on a football. At the end of each parting was a brief pigtail bound with wire. Bertram wondered why these women always walked one behind the other in single file, and decidedthat it was an inherited and unconscious instinct implanted by a few thousand years of use of narrow jungle-paths from which they dared not stray as the armed men-folk did. . . .
After half an hour or so of travelling this thrillingly interesting road, Bertram perceived that they were drawing near to the busy haunts of men. From a church, a congregation of Goanese or else African-Portuguese was pouring. The scene was a very Indian one—the women, with their dusky faces and long muslin veils wornsari-fashion over their European dresses of cotton or satin; the men, with their rusty black suits or cotton coats and trousers and European hats or solartopis. One very venerable gentleman, whose ancestors certainly numbered more Africans than Portuguese, wore a golfing suit (complete, except for the stockings), huge hob-nailed boots, and an over-small straw-yard with a gay ribbon. A fine upstanding specimen of the race, obviously the idol of his young wife, who walked beside him with her adoring gaze fixed upon his shining face, began well with an authentic silk hat, continued excellently with a swallow-tailed morning-coat, white waistcoat, high collar and black satin tie, but fell away from these high achievements with a pair of tight short flannel tennis-trousers, grey Army socks, and white canvas shoes.
“An idol with feet of pipe-clay,” smiled Bertram to himself, as his chariot drove heavily through the throng, and his charioteers howled “Semeele!Semeele!” at the tops of their voices.
Soon the tram-line branched and bifurcated, and tributary lines joined it from garden-enclosed bungalows and side turnings. Later he discovered that every private house has its own private tram-line running from its front door down its drive out to the main line in the street, and that, in Mombasa, one keeps one’s own trolley for use on the public line, as elsewhere one keeps one’s own carriage or motor-car.
On, past the Grand Hotel, a stucco building of two storeys, went the rumbling, rattling vehicle, past a fine public garden and blindingly white stucco houses that lined the blindingly white coral road, across a public square adorned with flowering shrubs and trees, to where arose a vast grey pile, the ancient blood-drenched Portuguese fort, and a narrow-streeted, whitewashed town of tall houses and low shops began.
Here the trolley-boys halted, and Bertram found himself at the entrance of the garden of the Mombasa Club, which nestles in theshadow of its mighty neighbour, the Fort—where once resided the Portuguese Governor and the garrison that defied the Arab and kept “the Island of Blood” for Portugal, and where now reside the Prison Governor and the convicts that include the Arab, and keep the public gardens for the public.
Boldly entering the Club, Bertram left his card on the Secretary and Members (otherwise stuck it on a green-baize board devoted to that purpose), and commenced a tour of inspection of the almost empty building. Evidently Society did not focus itself until the cool of the evening, in Africa as in India, and evidently this club very closely resembled a thousand others across the Indian Ocean from Bombay to Hong Kong, where the Briton congregates in exile. The only difference between this and any “station” club in India appeared to be in the facts that the servants were negroes and the trophies on the walls were different and finer. Magnificent horns, such as India does not produce, alternated with heads of lion and other feral beasts. Later Bertram discovered another difference in that the cheery and hospitable denizens of the Mombasa Club were, on the whole, a thirstier race than those of the average Indian club, and prone to expect and desire an equal thirst in one their guest. He decided that it was merely a matter of climate—a question of greater humidity.
Emerging from an airy and spacious upstairs bar-room on to a vast verandah, his breath was taken away by the beauty of the scene that met his eye, a scene whose charm lay chiefly in its colouring, in the wonderful sapphire blue of the strip of sea that lay between the low cliff, on which the club was built, and the bold headland of the opposite shore of the mainland, the vivid emerald green of the cocoa-palms that clothed that same headland, the golden clouds, the snowy white-horses into which the wind (which is always found in this spot and nowhere else in Mombasa) whipped the wavelets of the tide-rip, the mauve-grey distances of the Indian Ocean, with its wine-dark cloud-shadows, the brown-grey of the hoary fort (built entirely of coral), the rich red of tiled roofs, the vivid splashes of red, orange, yellow and purple from flowering vine and tree and shrub—a wonderful colour-scheme enhanced and intensified by the dazzling brightness of the sun and the crystal clearness of the limpid, humid air. . . . And in such surroundings Man had earned the title of “The Island of Blood” for the beautiful place—and, once again, as inthose barbarous far-off days of Arab and Portuguese, the shedding of blood was the burden of his song and the high end and aim of his existence. . . . Bertram sank into a long chair, put his feet up on the mahogany leg-rests, and slaked the colour-thirst of his æsthetic soul with quiet, joyous thankfulness. . . . Beautiful! . . .
What would his father say when he knew that his son was at the Front? . . .
What was Miranda doing? Nursing, probably. . . . What wouldshesay when she knew that he was at the Front? . . . Dear old Miranda. . . .
Where had he heard the name,Stayne-Brooker, before?Hadhe dreamed it in a nightmare as a child—or had he heard it mentioned in hushed accents of grief and horror by the “grown-ups” at Leighcombe Priory? . . . Some newspaper case perhaps. . . . He had certainly heard it before. . . . He closed his eyes. . . .
A woman strolled by with a selection of magazines in her hand, and took a chair that commanded a view of his. Presently she noticed him. . . . A new-comer evidently, or she would have seen him before. . . . What an exceedingly nice face he had—refined, delicate. . . . Involuntarily she contrasted it with the face of the evil and sensual satyr to whom she was married. . . . She would like to talk to him. . . .
Bertram opened his eyes, and Mrs. Stayne-Brooker became absorbed in the pages of her magazine. . . .
What a beautiful face she had, andhowsad and weary she looked . . . drawn and worried and anxious. . . . Had she perhaps a beloved husband in the fighting-line somewhere? He would like to talk to her—she looked so kind and so unhappy. . . . A girl, whose face he did not see, came and called her away. . .
As Bertram lay drinking in the beauty of the scene, the Club began to fill, and more particularly that part of it devoted to the dispensation and consumption of assorted alcoholic beverages.Almost everybody was in uniform, the majority in that of the Indian Army (as there was a large base camp of the Indian Expeditionary Force at Kilindini), and the remainder in those of British regiments, the Navy, the Royal Indian Marine, the Royal Engineers, the Royal Army Medical Corps, Artillery, local Volunteer Corps, and the “Legion of Frontiersmen.” A few ladies adorned the lawn and verandahs. Two large and weather-beaten but unascetic-looking men of middle age sat them down in chairs which stood near to that of Bertram. They were clad in khaki tunics, shorts and puttees, and bore the legend “C.C.” in letters of brass on each shoulder-strap.
“Hullo!” said the taller of them to Bertram, who was wondering what “C.C.” might mean. “Just come ashore from theElymas? Have a drink?”
“Yes,” replied he; “just landed. . . . Thanks—may I have a lime-squash?”
“What the devil’s that?” asked the other, and both men regarded him seriously and with a kind of shocked interest. “Never heard of it.”
“Don’t think they keep it here,” put in the shorter of the two men. “How d’you make it?”
“Lemon-juice, soda-water, and sugar,” replied Bertram, and felt that he was blushing in a childish and absurd manner.
Both men shook their heads, more in sorrow than in anger. They looked at each other, as might two physicians at the bedside of one whose folly has brought him to a parlous pass.
“Quite new to Africa?” enquired the taller.
“Yes. Quite,” confessed Bertram.
“Ah! Well, let me give you a word of advice then,” continued the man. “Don’t touch dangerous drinks. Avoid all harmful liquor as you would poison. It is poison, in this climate. Drink is the curse of Africa. It makes the place the White Man’s Grave. You can’t be too careful. . . . Can you, Piggy?” he added, turning to his friend.
“Quite right, Bill,” replied “Piggy,” as he rang a little bell that stood on a neighbouring table. “Let’s have a ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktail and then some beer for a start, shall we? . . . No—can’t be too careful. . . . Look at me f’r example. Been in the country quarter of a century, an’ never exceeded once! Nevertastedit, in fact.”
“What—alcohol?” enquired Bertram.
“No. . . . I was talking about harmful liquor,” replied Piggy patiently. “Things like—whatdid you call it? . . . Chalk-squash?”
“Lime-squash,” admitted Bertram with another glowing blush.
“Give it up, Sonny, give it up,” put in Bill. “Turn over a new leaf and start afresh. Make up your mind that, Heaven helping you, you’ll never touch a drop of the accursed poison again, but forswear slops and live cleanly; totally abstaining from—what is it?—soda-crunch?—fruit-juice, ginger-beer, lemonade, toast-water, barley-water, dirty-water, raspberryade, and all such filthy decoctions and inventions. . . .”
“Yes—give the country a chance,” interrupted Piggy. “Climate’s all right if you’ll take reasonable care and live moderately,” and he impatiently rang the little bell again. “’Course, if youwantto be ill and come to an early and dishonourable grave, drink all the rot-gut you can lay hands on—and break your mother’s heart. . . .”
Piggy lay back in his chair and gazed pensively at the ceiling. So did Bill. Bertram felt uncomfortable. “Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Bill, between a sigh and a grunt. “Chalk-powder and lemonade! . . . what a nerve! . . . Patient, unrecognised, unrewarded heroism. . . .”
“Merciful Heaven,” whispered Piggy, “slaked-lime and ginger-beer! . . What rash, waste courage and futile bravery. . . .” And suddenly leapt to his feet, swung the bell like a railway porter announcing the advent of a train, and roared “Boy!” until a white-clad, white-capped Swahili servant came running.
“N’jo, Boy!” he shouted. “Come here! . . . Lot of lazy, fatn’gombe.[72a]. . . Three ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktails,late hapa,”[72b]and as, with a humble “Verna,Bwana,” the servant hurried to the bar, grumbling.
“And now he’ll sit and have ashauri[72c]with his pals, while we die of thirst in this accursed land of sin and sorrow. . . . Beastlyshenzis.[72d]. . .”
“You don’t like Africa?” said Bertram, for the sake of something to say.
“Finest country on God’s earth. . . . Theonlycountry,” was the prompt reply.
“I suppose the negro doesn’t make a very good servant?” Bertram continued, as Piggy rumbled on in denunciation.
“Finest servants in the world,” answered that gentleman. “Theonlyservants, in fact. . . .”
“Should I take one with me on active service?” asked Bertram, suddenly remembering Ali Suleiman,aliasSloper.
“If you can get one,” was the reply. “You’ll be lucky if you can. . . . All snapped up by the officers of the Expeditionary Force, long ago.”
“Yes,” agreed Bill. “Make all the difference to your comfort if you can get one. Don’t take any but a Swahili, though. . . . You can depend on ’em, in a tight place. The good ones, that is. . . .”
A big, fat, clean-shaven man, dressed in white drill, strolled up to the little group. He reminded Bertram of the portraits of Mr. William Jennings Bryan who had recently visited India, and in three days unhesitatingly given his verdict on the situation, his solution of all political difficulties, and his opinion of the effete Britisher—uttering the final condemnation of that decadent.
“Hello! Hiram Silas P. Pocahantas of Pah,” remarked Piggy, with delicate pleasantry, and the big man nodded, smiled, and drew up a chair.
“The drinks are on me, boys,” quoth he. “Set ’em up,” and bursting into song, more or less tunefully, announced—
“I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier,”
“I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier,”
whereat Bill hazarded the opinion that the day might unexpectedly and ruddily dawn when he’d blooming well wish he bally wellhad, and that he could join them in a cocktail if he liked—or he could bung off if he didn’t. Apparently William disapproved of the American’s attitude, and that of his Government, toward the War and the Allies’ part therein; for, on the American’s “allowing he wouldconsume a highball” and the liquor arriving, he drank a health to those who are not too proud to fight, to those who do not give themselves airs as the Champions of Freedom, and then stand idly by when Freedom is trampled in the dust, and to those whose Almighty God is not the Almighty Dollar!
Expecting trouble, Bertram was surprised to find that the American was apparently amused, merely murmured “Shucks,” and, in the midst of a violent political dissertation from Bill, ably supported by Piggy, went to sleep with a long thin cigar in the corner of his long thin mouth. He had heard it all before.
Bertram found his Devil’s Own cocktail an exceedingly potent and unpleasant concoction. He decided that his first meeting with this beverage of the Evil One should be his last, and when Piggy, suddenly sitting up, remarked: “What’s wrong with the drinks?” and tinkled the bell, he arose, said a hurried farewell in some confusion, and fled.
“’Tain’t right to send a half-baked lad like that to fight the Colonial German,” observed Bill, idly watching his retreating form.
“Nope,” agreed the American, waking up. “Iwasgoing to say it’s adding insult to injury—but you ain’t injured Fritz any, yet, I guess,” and went to sleep again before either of the glaring Englishmen could think of a retort.
Ere Bertram left the Club, he heard two pieces of “inside” military information divulged quite openly, and by the Staff itself. As he reached the porch, a lady of fluffy appearance and kittenish demeanour was delaying a red-tabbed captain who appeared to be endeavouring to escape.
“And, oh, Captain,dotell me what ‘A.S.C.’ and ‘C.C.’ mean,” said the lady. “I saw a man with ‘A.S.C.’ on his shoulders, and there are two officers with ‘C.C.,’ in the Club. . . .Doyou know what it means? I amsointerested in military matters. Or is it a secret?”
“Oh, no!” replied the staff-officer, as he turned to flee. “‘A.S.C.’ stands for Ally Sloper’s Cavalry, of course, and ‘C.C.’ for Coolie Catchers. . . . They are slave-traders, really, with a Government contract for the supply of porters. They get twenty rupees for each slave caught and delivered alive, and ten for a dead one, or one who dies within a week.”
“What do they want thedeadones for?” she whispered.
“ThatI dare not tell you,” replied the officer darkly, and with a rapid salute, departed.
Emerging from the Club garden on to the white road, Bertram gazed around for his trolley-boys and beheld them not.
“All right, ole chap,” boomed the voice of Ali, who suddenlyappeared beside him. “I looking afterBwana. Master going back along shippy? I fetch trolley now and seeBwanaat Kilindini, thank you, please sah, good God,” and he disappeared in the direction of the town, returning a couple of minutes later with the trolley.
“Master not pay these dam’ thieves too much, ole chap,” he remarked. “Two journey and one hour wait, they ask five rupees. Master give two-an’-a-puck.”
“How much is a ‘puck’?” enquired Bertram, ever anxious to learn.
“Sah?” returned the puzzled Ali.
“What’s a puck?” repeated Bertram, and a smile of bright intelligence engulfed the countenance of the big Swahili.
“Oh, yessah!” he rumbled. “Give two rupee and whatBwanacall ‘puck-in-the-neck.’ All the same, biff-on-the-napper, dig-in-the-ribs, smack-in-the-eye, kick-up-the—”
“Oh, yes, I see,” interrupted Bertram, smiling—but at the back of his amusement was the sad realisation that he was not of the class ofbwanaswho can gracefully, firmly and finally present two-and-a-puck to extortionate and importunate trolley-boys.
He stepped on to the trolley and sat down, as Ali, saluting and salaaming respectfully, again bade him be of good cheer and high heart, as he would see him at Kilindini.
“How will you get there? Would you like to ride?” asked the kind-hearted and considerate Bertram (far too kind-hearted and considerate for the successful handling of black or brown subordinates and inferiors).
“Oh, God, sah, no, please,” replied the smiling Ali. “This Swahili slave cannot sit withBwana, and cannot run with damn low trolley-boys. Can running by self though like gentleman, thank you, please,” and as the trolley started, added: “So long, ole chap. See Master at Kilindini by running like hell. Ta-ta by damn!” When the trolley had disappeared round a bend of the road, he generously kilted up his flowing night-dress and started off at the long loping trot which the African can maintain over incredible distances.
Arrived at Kilindini, Bertram paid the trolley-boys and discovered that, while they absorbed rupees with the greatest avidity, they looked askance at such fractions thereof as the eight-anna, four-anna, and two-anna piece, poking them over in their palmsand finally tendering them back to him with many grunts and shakes of the head as he said:
“Well, you’llhaveto take them, you silly asses,” to the uncomprehending coolies. “Thatlot makes a rupee—one half-a-rupee and two quarters, and that lot makes a rupee—four two-anna bits and two four-annas, doesn’t it?”
But the men waxed clamorous, and one of them threw his money on the ground with an impudent and offensive gesture. Bertram coloured hotly, and his fist clenched. He hesitated; ought he. . . .Smack!Thud! and the man rolled in the dust as Ali Sloper,aliasSuleiman, sprang upon him, smote him again, and stood over him, pouring forth a terrific torrent of violent vituperation.
As the victim of his swift assault obediently picked up the rejected coins, he turned to Bertram.
“These dam’ niggers not knowingannas, sah,” he said, “onlycents. This not like East Indiaman’s country. Hundred cents making one rupee here. All shopkeepers saying, ‘No damn good’ if master offering annas, please God, sah.”
“Well—I haven’t enough money with me, then—” began Bertram.
“I pay trolley-boys, sah,” interrupted Ali quickly, “and Master can paying me to-morrow—or on pay-day at end of mensem.”
“But, look here,” expostulated Bertram, as this new-found guide, philosopher and friend sent the apparently satisfied coolies about their business. “I might not see you to-morrow. You’d better come with me to the ship and—”
“Oh, sah, sah!” cried the seemingly hurt and offended Ali, “am I notBwana’sfaithful ole servant?” and turning from the subject as closed, said he would produce a boat to convey his cherished employer to his ship.
“Master bucking up like hell now, please,” he advised. “No boat allowed to move in harbour after six pip emma, sah, thank God, please.”
“Who on earth’s Pip Emma?” enquired the bewildered Bertram, as they hurried down the hill to the quay.
“What British soldier-mans and officer-bwanasin Signal Corps call ‘p.m.,’ sah,” was the reply. “Master saying ‘six p.m.,’ but SignalBwanaalways saying ‘six pip emma’—all samemeaning but different language, please God, sah. P’r’aps German talk, sah? I do’n’ know, sah.”
And Bertram then remembered being puzzled by a remark of Maxton (to the effect that he had endeavoured to go down to his cabin at “three ack emma” and being full of “beer,” had fallen “ack over tock” down the companion), and saw light on the subject. Truly these brigade signaller people talked in a weird tongue that might seem a foreign language to an uninitiated listener.
At the pier he saw Commander Finnis, of the Royal Indian Marine, and gratefully accepted an offer of a joy-ride in his launch to the good shipElymas, to which that officer was proceeding.
“We’re disembarking you blokes to-morrow morning,” said he to Bertram, as they seated themselves in the stern of the smart little boat. “Indian troops going under canvas here, and British entraining for Nairobi. Two British officers of Indian Army to proceed by tug at once to M’paga, a few hours down the coast, in German East. Scrap going on there. Poor devils will travel on deck, packed tight with fifty sheep and a gang of nigger coolies. . . .Somewhiff!” and he chuckled callously.
“D’you know who are going?” asked Bertram eagerly. Suppose he should be one of them—and in a “scrap” by this time to-morrow! How would he comport himself in his first fight?
“No,” yawned the Commander. “O.C. troops on board will settle that.”
And Bertram held his peace, visualising himself as collecting his kit, hurrying on to a dirty little tug to sit in the middle of a flock of sheep while the boat puffed and panted through the night along the mysterious African shore, landing on some white coral beach beneath the palms at dawn, hurrying to join the little force fighting with its back to the sea and its face to the foe, leaping into a trench, seizing the rifle of a dying man whose limp fingers unwillingly relaxed their grip, firing rapidly but accurately into the—
“Up you go,” quoth Commander Finnis, and Bertram arose and stepped on to the platform at the bottom of the ladder that hospitably climbed the side of His Majesty’s Troop-shipElymas.
However nonchalant in demeanour, it was an eager and excited crowd of officers that stood around the foot of the boat-deck ladder awaiting the result of the conference held in the Captain’s cabin, to which meeting-place its proprietor had taken Commander Finnis before requesting the presence of Colonel Haldon, the First Officer, and the Ship’s Adjutant, to learn the decision and orders of the powers-that-be concerning all and sundry, from the ship’s Captain to the Sepoys’ cook.
Who would Colonel Haldon send forthwith to M’paga, where the scrap was even then in progress (according to Lieutenant Greene, quoting Commander Finnis)? What orders did the papers in the fateful little dispatch-case, borne by the latter gentleman, contain for the various officers not already instructed to join their respective corps? Who would be sent to healthy, cheery Nairobi? Who to the vile desert at Voi? Who to interesting, far-distant Uganda? Who to the ghastly mangrove-swamps down the coast by the border of German East? Who to places where there was real active service, fighting, wounds, distinction and honourable death? Who to dreary holes where they would “sit down” and sit tight, rotting with fever and dysentery, eating out their hearts, without seeing a single German till the end of the war. . . .
Bertram thought of a certain “lucky-dip bran-tub,” that loomed large in memories of childhood, whence, at a Christmas party, he had seen three or four predecessors draw most attractive and delectable toys and he had drawn a mysterious and much-tied parcel which had proved to contain a selection of first-class coke. What was he about to draw from Fate’s bran-tub to-day?
When the Ship’s Adjutant, bearing sheets of foolscap, eventually emerged from the Captain’s cabin, ran sidling down the boat-deck ladder and proceeded to the notice-board in the saloon-companion, followed by the nonchalantly eager and excited crowd, as is the frog-capturing duck by all the other ducks of the farm-yard, Bertram, with beating heart, read down the list until he came to his own name—only to discover that Fate had hedged.
The die was not yet cast, and Second-Lieutenant B. Greenewould disembark with detachments, Indian troops, and, at Mombasa, await further orders.
Captain Brandone and Lieutenant Stanner would proceed immediately to M’paga, and with wild cries of “Yoicks! Tally Ho!” and “Gone away!” those two officers fled to their respective cabins to collect their kit.
Dinner that night was a noisy meal, and talk turned largely upon the merits or demerits of the places from Mombasa to Uganda to which the speakers had been respectively posted.
“Where are you going, Brannigan?” asked Bertram of that cheery Hibernian, as he seated himself beside him.
“Where am Oi goin’, is ut, me bhoy?” was the reply. “Faith, where the loin-eating man—Oi mane the man-eating loins reside, bedad. Ye’ve heard o’ the man-eaters of Tsavo? That’s where Oi’m goin’, me bucko—to the man-eaters of Tsavo.”
Terence had evidently poured a libation of usquebagh before dining, for he appeared wound up to talk.
“Begorra—if ut’s loin-eaters they are, it’s Terry Brannigan’ll gird uphisloins an’ be found there missing entoirely. . . . Oi’d misloike to be ’aten by a loin, Greene . . .” and he frowned over the idea and grew momentarily despondent.
“’Tis not phwat I wint for a sojer for, at all, at all,” he complained, and added a lament to the effect that he was not as tough as O’Toole’s pig. But the mention of this animal appeared to have a cheering effect, for he burst into song.
“Ye’ve heard of Larry O’Toole,O’ the beautiful town o’ Drumgool?Faith, he had but wan eyeTo ogle ye by,But, begorra, that wan was a jool. . . .”
“Ye’ve heard of Larry O’Toole,O’ the beautiful town o’ Drumgool?Faith, he had but wan eyeTo ogle ye by,But, begorra, that wan was a jool. . . .”
After dinner, Bertram sought out Colonel Haldon for further orders, information and advice.
“Everybody clears off to-morrow morning, my boy,” said he, “and in twenty-four hours we shall be scattered over a country as big as Europe. You’ll be in command, till further orders, of all native troops landed at Mombasa. I don’t suppose you’ll be there long, though. You may get orders to bung off with the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth draft of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, or you may have to see them off under a Native Officer and goin the opposite direction yourself. . . . Don’t worry, anyway. You’ll be all right. . . .”
That night Bertram again slept but little, and had a bad relapse into the old state of self-distrust, depression and anxiety. This sense of inadequacy, inexperience and unworth was overwhelming. What did he know about Sepoys that he should, for a time, be in sole command and charge of a mixed force of Regular troops and Imperial Service troops which comprised Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pathans, Punjabi Mahommedans, Deccani Marathas, Rajputs, and representatives of almost every other fighting race in India? It would be bad enough if he could thoroughly understand the language of any one of them. As it was, he had a few words of cook-house Hindustani, and a man whom he disliked and distrusted as his sole representative and medium of intercourse with the men. Suppose the fellow was rather hismis-representative? Suppose he fomented trouble, as only a native can? What if there were a sudden row and quarrel between some of the naturally inimical races—a sort of inter-tribal shindy between the Sikhs and the Pathans, for example? Who was wretched little “Blameless Bertram,” to think he could impose his authority upon such people and quell the riot with a word? What if they defied him and the Jemadar did not support him? What sort of powers and authority had he? . . . He did not know. . . . Suppose therewerea row, and there was real fighting and bloodshed? It would get into the papers, and his name would be held up to the contempt of the whole British Empire. It would get into the American papers too. Then an exaggerated account of it would be published in the Press of the Central Powers and their wretched allies, to show the rotten condition of the Indian Army. The neutral papers would copy it. Soon there would not be a corner of the civilised world where people had not heard the name of Greene, the name of the wretched creature who could not maintain order and discipline among a few native troops, but allowed some petty quarrel between two soldiers to develop into an “incident.” Yes—that’s what would happen, a “regrettable incident.” . . . And the weary old round of self-distrust, depreciation and contempt went its sorry cycle once again. . . .
Going on deck in the morning, Bertram discovered that supplementary orders had been published, and that all native troopswould be disembarked under his command at twelve noon, and that he would report, upon landing, to the Military Landing Officer, from whom he would receive further orders. . . . Troops would carry no ammunition, nor cooked rations. All kits would go ashore with the men. . . .
Bertram at once proceeded to the companion leading down to the well-deck, called a Sepoy of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and “sent his salaams” to the Jemadar of that regiment, to the Subedar of the Gurkhas, the Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs and the Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent.
To these officers he endeavoured to make it clear that every man of their respective commands, and every article of those men’s kit, bedding, and accoutrements, and all stores, rations and ammunition, must be ready for disembarkation at midday.
The little Gurkha Subedar smiled brightly, saluted, and said he quite understood—which was rather clever of him, as his Hindustani was almost as limited as was Bertram’s. However, he had grasped, from Bertram’s barbarous and laborious “Sub admi. . .sub saman. . .sub chiz. . .tyar. . .bara badji. . .ither se jainga. . .” that “all men . . . all baggage . . . all things . . . at twelve o’clock . . . will go from here”—and that was good enough for him.
“Any chance of fighting to-morrow, Sahib?” he asked, but Bertram, unfortunately, did not understand him.
The tall, bearded Sikh Subedar saluted correctly, said nothing but “Bahut achcha,Sahib,”[81]and stood with a cold sneer frozen upon his hard and haughty countenance.
The burly Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent, or Mixed Pickles, smiled cheerily, laughed merrily at nothing in particular, and appeared mildly shocked at Bertram’s enquiry as to whether he understood. Ofcourse, he understood! Was not the Sahib a most fluent speaker of most faultless Urdu, or Hindi, or Sindhi, or Tamil or something? Anyhow, he had clearly caught the words “all men ready at twelve o’clock”—and who could require more than a nice clearhookumlike that.
Jemadar Hassan Ali looked pained and doubtful. So far as his considerable histrionic powers permitted, he gave his rendering of an honest and intelligent man befogged by perfectly incomprehensible orders and contradictory directions which hemay not question and on which he may not beg further enlightenment. His air and look of “Faithful to the last I will go forth and strive to obey orders which I cannot understand,and to carry out instructions given so incomprehensibly and in so strange a tongue that Allah alone knows what is required of me” annoyed Bertram exceedingly, and having smiled upon the cheery little Subedar and the cheery big Jemadar, and looked coldly upon the unpleasant Sikh and the difficult Hassan Ali, he informed the quartette that it had his permission to depart.
As they saluted and turned to go, he caught a gleam of ferocious hatred upon the face of the Gurkha officer whom the Sikh jostled, with every appearance of intentional rudeness and the desire to insult. Bertram’s sympathy was with the Gurkha and he wished that it was with him and his sturdy little followers that he was to proceed to the front. He felt that they would follow him to the last inch of the way and the last drop of their blood, and would fight for sheer love of fighting, as soon as they were shown an enemy.
After a somewhat depressing breakfast, at which he found himself almost alone, Bertram arrayed himself in full war paint, packed his kit, said farewell to the ship’s officers and then inspected the troops, drawn up ready for disembarkation on the well-decks. He was struck by the apparent cheerfulness of the Gurkhas and the clumsy heaviness of their kit which included a great horse-collar roll of cape, overcoat or ground-sheet strapped like a colossal cross-belt across one shoulder and under the other arm; by the apparent depression of the men of the Very Mixed Contingent and their slovenliness; by what seemed to him the critical and unfriendly stare of the Sherepur Sikhs as he passed along their ranks; and by the elderliness of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth draft. Had these latter been perceptibly aged by their sea-faring experiences and were they feeling terriblyterra marique jactati, or was it that the impossibility of procuring henna or other dye had caused the lapse of brown, orange, pink and red beards and moustaches to their natural greyness? Anyhow, they looked distinctly old, and on the whole, fitter for the ease and light duty of “employed pensioner” than for active service under very difficult conditions against a ferocious foe upon his native heath. His gentle nature and kindly heart led Bertram to feel very sorry indeed for one bemedalled oldgentleman who had evidently had a very bad crossing, still had a very bad cough, and looked likely to have another go of fever before very long.
As he watched the piling-up of square-sided boxes of rations, oblong boxes of ammunition, sacks, tins, bags and jars, bundles of kit and bedding, cooking paraphernalia, entrenching tools, mule harness, huge zinc vessels for the transport of water, leatherchhagalsand canvaspakhalsor waterbags, and wished that his own tight-strapped impedimenta were less uncomfortable and heavy, a cloud of choking smoke from the top of the funnel of some boat just below him, apprised him of the fact that his transport was ready. Looking over the side he saw a large barge, long, broad, and very deep, with upper decks at stem and stern, which a fussy little tug had just brought into position below an open door in the middle of the port side of theElymas. It was a long way below it too, and he realised that unless a ladder were provided every man would have to drop from the threshold of the door to the very narrow edge of the barge about six feet below, make his way along it to the stern deck, and down a plank on to the “floor” of the barge itself. When his turn came he’d make an ass of himself—he’d fall—he knew he would!
He tried to make Jemadar Hassan Ali understand that two Havildars were to stand on the edge of the barge, one each side of the doorway and guide the errant tentative feet of each man as he lowered himself and clung to the bottom of the doorway. He also had the sacks thrown where anyone who missed his footing and fell from the side of the barge to the bottom would fall upon them and roll, instead of taking the eight feet drop and hurting himself. When this did happen, the Sepoys roared with laughter and appeared to be immensely diverted. It occurred several times, for it is no easy matter to lower oneself some six feet, from one edge to another, when heavily accoutred and carrying a rifle. When every man and package was on board, Bertram cast one last look around theElymas, took a deep breath, crawled painfully out backwards through the port, clung to the sharp iron edge, felt about wildly with his feet which were apparently too sacred and superior for the Havildars to grab and guide, felt his clutching fingers weaken and slip, and then with a pang of miserable despair fell—and landed on the side of the barge a whole inch below where his feet had been when he fell.A minute later he had made his way to the prow, and, with a regal gesture, had signified to the captain of the tug that he might carry on.
And then he sat him down upon the little piece of deck and gazed upon the sea of upturned faces, black, brown, wheat-coloured, and yellow, that spread out at his feet from end to end and side to side of the great barge.
Of what were they thinking, these men from every corner of India and Nepal, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, or squatted on the boxes and bales that covered half the floor of the barge? What did they think of him? Did they really despise and dislike him as he feared, or did they admire and like and trust him—simply because he was a white man and a Sahib? He had a suspicion that the Sikhs disliked him, the Mixed Contingent took him on trust as an Englishman, the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth kept an open mind, and the Gurkhas liked him—all reflecting really the attitude of their respective Native Officers. . . .
In a few minutes the barge was run alongside the Kilindini quay, and Bertram was, for the second time, climbing its stone stairs, in search of the Military Landing Officer, the arbiter of his immediate destiny.
As he reached the top of the steps he was, as it were, engulfed and embraced in a smile that he already knew—and he realised that it was with a distinct sense of pleasure and a feeling of lessened loneliness and unshared friendless responsibility that he beheld the beaming face of his “since-long-time-to-come” faithful old retainer Ali Suleiman.
“God bless myself please, thank you,Bwana,” quoth that gentleman, saluting repeatedly. “Bwanawill now wanting Military Embarkation Officer by golly. I got him, sah,” and turning about added, “Bwanacome along me, sah, I got him all right,” as though he had, with much skill and good luck, tracked down, ensnared, and encaged some wary and wily animal. . . .
At the end of the little stone pier was a rough table or desk, by which stood a burly officer clad in slacks, and a vast spine-pad of quilted khaki. On the tables were writing-materials and a mass of papers.
“Mornin’,” remarked this gentleman, turning a crimson and perspiring face to Bertram. “I’m the M.L.O. You’ll fall yourmen in here and they’ll stack their kits with the rations and ammunition over there. Then you must tell off working-parties to cart the lot up to the camp. I’ve only got two trucks and your fatigue-parties’ll have to man-handle ’em. You’ll have to ginger ’em up or you’ll be here all day. I don’t want you to march off till all your stuff’s up to the camp. . . . Don’t bung off yourself, y’know. . . . Right O. Carry on. . . .” Bertram saluted.
Another job which he must accomplish without hitch or error. The more jobs hecoulddo, the better. What he dreaded was the job for the successful tackling of which he had not the knowledge, ability or experience.
“Very good, sir,” he replied. “Er—wherearethe trolleys?” for there was no sign of any vehicle about the quay.
“Oh, they’ll roll up by and by, I expect,” was the reply. Bertram again saluted and returned to the barge. Calling to the Native Officers he told them that the men would fall in on the bunder and await further orders, each detachment furnishing a fatigue-party for the unloading of the impedimenta. Before very long, the men were standing at ease in the shade of a great shed, and their kits, rations and ammunition were piled in a great mound at the wharf edge.
And thus, having nothing to do until the promised trucks arrived, Bertram realised that it was terribly hot; suffocatingly, oppressively, dangerously hot; and that he felt very giddy, shaky and faint.
The sun seemed to beat upward from the stone of the quay and sideways from the iron of the sheds as fiercely and painfully as it did downward from the sky. And there was absolutely nowhere to sit down. He couldn’t very well squat down in the dirt. . . . No—but the men could—so he approached the little knot of Native Officers and told them to allow the men to pile arms, fall out, and sit against the wall of the shed—no man to leave the line without permission.
Jemadar Hassan Ali did not forget to post a sentry over the arms on this occasion. For an hour Bertram strolled up and down. It was less tiring to do that than to stand still. His eyes ached most painfully by reason of the blinding glare, his head ached from the pressure on his brows of his thin, but hard and heavy, helmet (the regulation pattern, apparently designed with an eye to the maximum of danger and discomfort) and his bodyached by reason of the weight and tightness of his accoutrements. It was nearly two o’clock and he had breakfasted early. Suppose he got sunstroke, or collapsed from heat, hunger, and weariness? What an exhibition! When would the men get their next meal? Where were those trolleys? It was two hours since the Military Landing Officer had said they’d “roll up by and by.” He’d go and remind him.
The Military Landing Officer was just off to his lunch and well-earned rest at the Club. He had been on the beastly bunder since six in the morning—and anybody who wanted him now could come and find him, what?
“Excuse me, sir,” said Bertram as Captain Angus flung his portfolio of papers to his orderly, “those trucks haven’t come yet.”
“Wha’trucks?” snapped the Landing Officer. He had just told himself he haddonefor to-day—and he had had nothing since half-past five that morning. People must be reasonable—he’d been hard at it for eight solid hours damitall y’know.
“The trucks for my baggage and ammunition and stuff.”
“Well,Ihaven’t got ’em, have I?” replied Captain Angus. “Be reasonable about it. . . I can’tmaketrucks. . . Anybody’d think I’d stolen your trucks. . . . You must bepatient, y’know, anddobe reasonable. . . .Ihaven’t got ’em. Search me.”
The Military Landing Officer had been on his job for months and had unconsciously evolved two formulæ, which he used for his seniors and juniors respectively, without variation of a word. Bertram had just heard the form of prayer to be used with Captains and unfortunates of lower rank, who showed yearnings for things unavoidable. To Majors and those senior thereunto the crystallised ritual was:
“Can’t understand it, sir, at all. I issued the necessary orders all right—but there’s a terrible shortage. One must make allowances in these times of stress. It’ll turn up all right.I’ll see to it . . .” etc., and this applied equally well to missing trains, mules, regiments, horses, trucks, orders, motor-cars or anything else belonging to the large class of Things That Can Go Astray.
“You told me to wait, sir,” said Bertram.
“Then why the devildon’t you?” said Captain Angus.
“I am, sir,” replied Bertram.
“Then what’s all this infernal row about?” replied Captain Angus.
Bertram felt that he understood exactly how children feel when, unjustly treated, they cannot refrain from tears. It wastoobad. He had stood in this smiting sun for over two hours awaiting the promised trucks—and now he was accused of making an infernal row because he had mentioned that they had not turned up! If the man had told him where they were, surely he and his three hundred men could have gone and got them long ago.
“By the way,” continued Captain Angus, “I’d better give you your route—for when youdoget away—and you mustn’t sit here all day like this, y’know. You must ginger ’em up a bit” (more formula this) “or you’ll all take root. Well, look here, you go up the hill and keep straight on to where a railway-bridge crosses the road. Turn to the left before you go under the bridge, and keep along the railway line till you see some tents on the left again. Strike inland towards these, and you’ll find your way all right. Take what empty tents you want, but don’t spread yourselftoomuch—though there’s only some details there now. You’ll be in command of that camp for the present. . . . Better not bung off to the Club either—you may be wanted in a hurry. . . . I’ll see if those trucks are on the way as I go up. Don’t hop off till you’ve shifted all your stuff. . . So long! . . .” and the Military Landing Officer bustled off to where at the Dock gates a motor-car awaited him. . . .
Before long, Bertram found that he must either sit down or fall down, so terrific was the stifling heat, so heavy had his accoutrements become, and so faint, empty and giddy did he feel.
Through the open door of a corrugated-iron shed he could see a huge, burly, red-faced European, sitting at a little rough table in a big bare room. In this barn-like place was nothing else but a telephone-box and a chair. Could he go in and sit on it? That dark and shady interior looked like a glimpse of heaven from this hell of crashing glare and gasping heat. . . . Perhaps confidential military communications were made through that telephone though, and the big man, arrayed in a singlet and white trousers, was there for the very purpose of receiving them secretly and of preventing the intrusion of any stranger? Anyhow—it would be a minute’s blessed escape from the blinding inferno, merely to go inside and ask the man if he could sit down while he awaited thetrucks. He could place the chair in a position from which he could see his men. . . . He entered the hut, and the large man raised a clean-shaven crimson face, ornamented with a pair of piercing blue eyes, and stared hard at him as he folded a pinkish newspaper and said nothing at all, rather disconcertingly.
“May I come in and sit down for a bit, please?” said Bertram. “I think I’ve got a touch of the sun.”
“Put your wacant faice in that wacant chair,” was the prompt reply.
“Thanks—may I put it where I can see my men?” said Bertram.
“Putt it where you can cock yer feet on this ’ere table an’ lean back agin that pertition, more sense,” replied the large red man, scratching his large red head. “Youdon’ want to see yore men, you don’t,” he added. “They’re a ’orrid sight. . . . All natives is. . . . You putt it where you kin get a good voo o’me. . . . Shed a few paounds o’ the hup’olstery and maike yerself atome. . . . Wisht I got somethink to orfer yer—but I ain’t. . . . Can’t be ’osspitable on a basin o’ water wot’s bin washed in—can yer?”
Bertram admitted the difficulty, and, with a sigh of intense relief, removed his belt and cross-belts and all that unto them pertained. And, as he sank into the chair with a grateful heart, entered Ali Suleiman, whom he had not seen for an hour, bearing in one huge paw a great mug of steaming tea, and in the other a thick plate of thicker biscuits.
Bertram could have wrung the hand that fed him. Never before in the history of tea had a cup of tea been so welcome.
“Heaven reward you as I never can,” quoth Bertram, as he drank. “Where on earth did you raise it?”
“Oh, sah!” beamed Ali. “Master not mentioning it. I am knowing cook-fellow at R.E. Sergeants’ Mess, and saying my frien’ Sergeant Jones, R.E., wanting cup of tea and biscuits at bunder P.D.Q.”
“P.D.Q.?” enquired Bertram.
“Yessah, all ’e same ‘pretty dam quick’—and bringing it toBwanaby mistake,” replied Ali, the son of Suleiman.
“Butisn’tthere some mistake?” asked the puzzled youth. “I don’t want to . . .”
“Lookere,” interrupted the large red man, “youdon’ wanter discover no mistakes, not until you drunk that tea, you don’t.. . . You push that daown yore neck and then give that nigger a cent an’ tell ’im to be less careful nex’ time. You don’ wanterdiscourage a good lad like that, you don’t. Not ’arf, you do.”
“But—Sergeant Jones’s tea” began Bertram, looking unhappily at the half-emptied cup.
“Sergeant Jones’s tea!” mimicked the rude red man, in a high falsetto. “Ifole Shifter Jones drunk a cup o’ tea it’d be in all the paipers nex’ mornin’, it would. Not arf it wouldn’t. Don’ believe ’e ever tasted tea, I don’t, an’ if hedid—”
But at this moment a white-clad naval officer of exalted rank strode into the room, and the large red man sprang to his feet with every sign of respect and regard. Picking up a Navy straw hat from the floor, the latter gentleman stood at attention with it in his hand. Bertram decided that he was a naval petty officer on some shore-job or other, perhaps retired and now a coast-guard or Customs official of some kind. Evidently he knew the exalted naval officer and held him, or his Office, in high regard.
“Get my message, William Hankey?” he snapped.
“Yessir,” replied William Hankey.
“Did you telephone for the car at once?”
“Nossir,” admitted Hankey, with a fluttering glance of piteous appeal.
The naval officer’s face became a ferocious and menacing mask of wrath and hate, lit up by a terrible glare. Up to that moment he had been rather curiously like Hankey. Now he was even more like a very infuriated lion. He took a step nearer the table, fixed his burning, baleful eye upon the wilting William, and withered him with the most extraordinary blast of scorching invective that Bertram had ever heard, or was ever likely to hear, unless he met Captain Sir Thaddeus Bellingham ffinch Beffroye again.
“You blundering bullock,” quoth he; “you whimpering weasel; you bleating blup; you miserable dog-potter; you horny-eyed, bleary-nosed, bat-eared, lop-sided, longshore loafer; you perishing shrimp-peddler; you Young Helper; you Mother’s Little Pet; you dear Ministering Child; you blistering bug-house body-snatcher; you bloated bumboat-woman; you hopping hermaphrodite—what d’ye mean by it? Eh? . . .What d’ye mean by it, you anæmic Aggie; you ape-faced anthropoid; you adenoid; you blood-stained buzzard; you abject abortion; youabstainer; you sickly, one-lunged, half-baked, under-fed alligator; you scrofulous scorbutic; you peripatetic pimple; you perambulating pimp-faced poodle; what about it? Eh?What about it?”
Mr. William Hankey stood silent and motionless, but in his face was the expression of one who, with critical approval, listens and enjoys. Such a look may be seen upon the face of a musician the while he listens to the performance of a greater musician.
Having taken breath, the Captain continued: “What have you got to say for yourself, you frig-faced farthing freak, you? Nothing! You purple poultice-puncher; you hopeless, helpless, herring-gutted hound; you dropsical drink-water; you drunken, drivelling dope-dodger; you mouldy, mossy-toothed, mealy-mouthed maggot; you squinny-faced, squittering, squint-eyed squab, you—what have you got to say for yourself? Eh? . . .Answer me, you mole; you mump; you measle; you knob; you nit; you noun; you part; you piece; you portion; you bald-headed, slab-sided, jelly-bellied jumble; you mistake; you accident; you imperial stinker; you poor, pale pudding; you populous, pork-faced parrot—why don’t you speak, you doddering, dumb-eared, deaf-mouthed dust-hole; you jabbering, jawing, jumping Jezebel, why don’t you answer me? Eh?D’ye hearme, you fighting gold-fish; you whistling water-rat; you Leaning Tower of Pisa-pudding; you beer-belching ration-robber; you pink-eyed, perishing pension-cheater; you flat-footed, frog-faced fragment; you trumpeting tripe-hound? Hold your tongue and listen to me, you barge-bottom barnacle; you nestling gin-lapper; you barmaid-biting bun-bolter; you tuberculous tub; you mouldy manure-merchant; you moulting mop-chewer; you kagging, corybantic cockroach; you lollipop-looting lighterman; you naval know-all.Why didn’t you telephone for the car?”
“’Cos it were ’ere all the time, sir,” replied Mr. William Hankey, perceiving that his superior officer had run down and required rest.
“That’sall right, then,” replied Captain Sir Thaddeus Bellingham ffinch Beffroye pleasantly, and strode to the door. There he turned, and again addressed Mr. Hankey.